


That Got Ugly Quick

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [18]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: (Aka self mutilation), Ableism, Alternate Universe - Wings, And that creates problems, Attempted Murder, Bird Shenanigans, Feather Plucking, Gen, No one really gets along, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 19:13:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13887327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Did you ever hear the joke about the pigeon trying to start a fight with the lammergeier?And then the goose joined in, the raven right after!I'm telling you, feathers everywhere!





	That Got Ugly Quick

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still thinking about Birds.
> 
> Starring, in order of appearance:
> 
> A Pigeon  
> A Bearded Vulture/Lammergeier  
> A Whooping Crane  
> A Common Raven  
> A Band Tailed Gull  
> A Chinese Goose  
> A Ruddy Quail Dove  
> And a Bronze Turkey

“It's really not all that helpful if you are only bringing back your own dinner, leaving the rest to rot I expect.”

“Vile demön, yöu knöw nöt öf what yöu say! I take all that I must carry, and spread aböut every piece fröm the hunt! Everyöne gets their share!”

“Oh really? I can't quite recall the last time you've ever asked me if I wanted anything.”

“As if I shöuld waste my efförts with an evil wörm such as yöurself! My efförts are nöt för yöur sake!”

“So that ‘everyone gets their share’ bit was just a lie then, hm?”

Wickerbottom sighed heavily, wrinkled hand going to message her forehead as the bickering continued on.

They've been at it all afternoon, the moment Wigfrid had stepped back into camp lugging bags full of meat and furs, and Maxwell had been skulking around camp all day, still recovering from the previous hound attack a few days ago, his wings and arms still heavily bandaged. It had been a stressful fight to keep him from bleeding to death and now Wickerbottom was starting to wonder if it would have been better to let nature take its course.

But Wilson had been insistent, as well as very near to a nervous breakdown, so the man was stuck in this little campsite until he got fair enough to fly off on his own.

And if the scientist went out with him then so be it, she wasn't going to waste her time. Worrying over the children was hard enough, but having to keep an eye on everyone else was pushing her past her limit.

It was one of the reasons she usually camped with only a few people, and not usually in with this lot. But this particular isle was edging itself to winter and perhaps being in a larger group this time around might give her more protection.

“-it’s fairly common to come and see you sitting around, stuffing your face with the last of the food. You eat too much and no one else gets enough.”

“Yöu lie, but nö öne believes yöur words! Thöse whö put in the effört get their share!”

“Oh, well, I do suppose that makes sense. But then, why do you keep feeding Wendy and Webber? Not to mention the useless “scientist”, he's not been doing much these days-”

Wickerbottom heard the flurry of feathers, glanced over to see said scientist jerk up from his worktable, hair disheveled and still looking half asleep, his wings and feathers puffing out as he blinked and rubbed at his scruffy face, now glowering in the general direction of the taller man.

“They are children, a prötectör such as myself wöuld never stand by and starve a child!”

“I'm fairly certain Higgsbury is not a child-”

“The alchemist knöws much and döes much, möre than a devil such as yöurself has ever cöntributed!” Wickerbottom flinched at the sudden rise in the viking voice level, her own wings drooping in irritation as she sighed heavily. “He has earned his place, unlike a snake like yöu!”

“ “Earned his place” you say, hm, I don't quite agree with that. Those hounds had sent him running, surely you remember that, me fighting them off and there goes your favored “alchemist” out into the woods to abandon us to our fate.”

Wigfrid glared up at the taller man, huge wings spread and brushing against the earth, dropped a smidgen as her body stance grew even more aggressive.

“It was only a few days ago, or have you forgotten already?”

“Yöu speak vile, ill intended wörds. I will nöt dishönör my friend.”

“Even if he'd leave you to the hounds, quite literally in fact?”

Wigfrid chanced a glance over to the now very awake scientist, his own face falling into a confused mess of nervousness as he looked back and forth from the two, not quite off his workbench but almost. From here Wickerbottom could see the unease, the wavering trust, but loyalty won out and she swung her narrowed red ringed gaze back at Maxwell, sneering up at him even as he postured, injured wings stretching out just a little, looking as if he wanted to puff out his chest.

“While I stayed around, risked my life even, just to help protect this mess of a camp, or the children if you want. Yes, I stayed and fought and got injured, and of course you'd rather feed the coward than someone who actually helped-”

“Silence yöur silver töngue fiend!” If Wigfrid had had her spear Wickerbottom was fairly certain the man would have been gutted by now. With the migraine in the back of her mind slowly growing, she didn't quite know if she would have stopped the woman or not. “Yöu seek tö split us apart! I shall nöt fall för yöur ruse!”

As they went back and forth, feathers puffed up and posturing aggressively and defensively, Wickerbottom closed her eyes for a moment, pulling her own wings back up as she settled herself. She would not be involving herself in such childish behavior.

There was a nervous fluttering of wings nearby, outside of camp, and she turned to watch the newcomer hop towards her, threadbare wings flapping and smacking together as the man skipped his way over.

While his face paint and clothing was still in immaculate form, his feathers were not.

“Picking again, are we?” Wickerbottoms voice threaded with barely contained disgust, raising herself up and eyeing the patches of barren skin and old scarring peeping out from his turtleneck sweater, his wings lacking more feathers than usual. The man had the decency to look ashamed, eyes darting away, a small smile still in place, but then his hands twitched.

Wickerbottom watched from over her glasses as his nervous habit caught him and his hand darted up and itched at his neck, plucking a small down feather with only a light wince, still trying to play it off.

“Do that again and I will have your hands tied behind your back.”

That got him, Wes twisting his hands behind him, white feather caught in his glove, and he tried to look innocent but was failing quite terribly.

“You know well enough to not pluck in public. There will be consequences, young man, and you will learn.”

He looked away, only slightly cowed, and Wickerbottom sniffed loudly, glowering over the mime for a moment. Plucking was not tolerated around her, especially in her camp, and she was growing sick of all the bloody tipped feathers hidden in the niches and corners of the campsite.

It was a terrible learned behavior, one she absolutely detested, and having two people in camp ripping up feathers whenever they felt like it was giving her such a rage. 

Wes did it more discreetly, but it was what it was no matter how it was done and she will not tolerate such bad manners. The only attention she'll give to feather pluckers will be a sharp retort, sometimes a slap upside the head, and privileges being revoked.

Maxwell had already lost every ounce of Nightmare Fuel he had owned because of his habit, and she was just waiting for him to slip up again just so she had a reason to confiscate his book from him as well.

Wes had recently lost his access to his balloons, but the man still didn't seem all that understanding of what he was getting into.

And if these two somehow teach the children to pluck she was going to exile them from the group permanently. They shall not be getting any sympathy from her, none whatsoever.

She will not encourage such ill behavior anymore than it already has been by the others.

“Yöu dare say that tö my face!?”

Wickerbottom watched the mime lean almost comically, trying to get a good look at the arguing that was happening behind her no doubt, and after a moment she pushed up her glasses, shook her wings and turned around. 

Wigfrid was swaying ever so slightly, the hackle of feathers on her neck raised and wings held away from her body, hostility just oozing off of her stance. Maxwell, on the other hand, seemed quite unperturbed, his own wings still tight against his back as he calmly glanced down at the viking.

Wickerbottom wasn't at all enthused by the display, voice dull and monotone as Wes fluttered his wings beside her, clapping his hands. “Oh dear.”

“It's not as if you're being much of a help around here. Everyone else can do the same work as you, and eat even less.”

“Yöu say yöu can match my öwn efförts sö easily, yet have döne nöt an öunce öf wörk all week!” Wigfrids voice crawled with a low pitched sound, her wings dropping and body growing tense. “What say yöu, having döne nöthing but eat up öur resöurces!?”

“I'm fairly certain I've done more than you. Can't quite recall all of it right now however.”

Oh dear lord, he was being antagonistic, just trying to get a rise out of her. Wickerbottom had to rub her forehead again, headache throbbing behind her eyes. The man had already accomplished pissing Wigfrid off, but didn't seem to want to stop just yet.

“In fact, I'm sure I've put in more work than yourself this entire day.”

Maxwell's voice drawled, mocking, and certainly lying, almost as if he was making it obvious on purpose. From the looks of it, Wickerbottom pursing her lips and weighing her options, he was indeed making a scene with ill intent.

The man was probably bored and wanted to cause some drama.

Unfortunately Maxwell was never good with social cues and when exactly too far was too far.

Especially when it came to the short tempered viking woman.

“Yöu think-” Wigfrid shook with barely contained rage, hackles raised, “-yöu think yöurself better at pröviding than myself!?”

“Obviously.”

There was a sly look there, an upturn of his mouth, and Wickerbottom could easily see the malicious teasing and prodding of his words now, the quick glances he was giving everyone around them. He was trying to expose her anger to the onlookers, perhaps trying to show off how easy it was to rile her up.

Again, Wickerbottom sighed. Maxwell was never very good at reading body language.

With a high pitched screech of sound Wigfrid flung herself forward, wings spreading and hands balling into fists as she slammed herself into the thinner man.

Wickerbottom listened as Wes clapped his hands and started to move around, throwing his hands about and silently mime shouting and cheering. She wouldn't stop his ridiculous acts, and she wouldn't be stepping in to stop this fight either.

From the looks of it, it wouldn't be lasting long, though from all the flailing and growling, screeching bird noises Wigfrid hadn't quite been ready for wings to start slapping her in the face. She was currently trying to get them off the ground, huge red tinged wings slamming into the dirt as Maxwell tried to keep them grounded.

A waste of energy in Wickerbottoms opinion, though Wigfrid was more aerial inclined than anyone else. She liked to drop her enemies.

There was a sudden scuffle of noise, Wes whirling around as someone came streaking down from above, almost grazing Wickerbottom in their descent, and an ungodly honking rose up as Willow barreled into the fight.

White wings were raised into the mix, and Wickerbottom was fairly sure the woman was after Maxwell but had not timed herself correctly and had slammed into Wigfrid instead.

Grip loosened from his suit, Maxwell slammed his wings into the vikings surprised face and attempted to scramble away as Willow continued her honking, huge wings trying to get her balance back.

“Öh nö yöu dön’t!”

Wickerbottom watched as Maxwell was dragged back in by the ankle, smaller grey wings beating frantically as Willow finally got her bearings and proceeded to trip on him.

Her landing on him caused a loud squeal of pigeon noise and her honking just got louder, and then Wigfrid tried again to take flight, still clutching his leg, helmet ascue on her head.

“Shouldn't we, uh, be stopping that?”

Wilson had scooted himself over, his own black feathers raised and wings trembling, whether from excitement or anxiety Wickerbottom couldn't quite identify. She gave him a narrowed glance and then turned up her head, eyeing Wes as he pantomimed next to her. 

“I am not involved in their dispute. If they want to be childish then so be it.”

“Willow wasn't part of it though…” Wilson's voice trailed off, dark eyes wide as he watched Willow grab a handful of feathers and yank them out, not realizing in her excitement that she was pulling out two different colored feathers and not just grey ones.

Wickerbottom had to admit, Wigfrid had amazing self control sometimes. She'd never hurt her true allies, not even under friendly fire, and instead just firmly batted her wing out of Willows grip and continued to focus on trying to wrap her hands around Maxwells neck.

She got a hold of his wing instead, his frantic writhing around and growling confusing enough when combined with Willows honking and flapping.

That got Wilson moving, hackles puffing up as he raised his hands and waved them about, hopping over in a panic.

“No no no, don't do that, you're going to reopen the wounds!”

No one was listening, and Wes watched curiously, a small, sly smile on his face as Wilson hopped around the fight, trying to get someone's attention.

Wickerbottom waited, eyes hooded and face in a deep, unsympathetic frown. She wasn't going to stop him.

“Someone's going to get hurt, come on you guys just stop, we don't need to-”

Wilson had his hands clawed in his hair, wings raised up with his shoulders, now looking a little wide eyed, but he was distracted enough that he didn't even notice when Wes snuck up behind him.

The squawk of raven sound was a loud blurb of noise, cutting off Willows honking as the man was shoved into her, his hands flailing as he tried to stop himself. Wes mimed a giggle and hopped silently back over to Wickerbottoms side, not even deterred by her disapproving glance.

The next honk after that was higher pitched and filled with gurgling anger, as Wilson had someone gotten his hands around Willows pigtails.

And that started another flurry of activity, Willow flaring her wings and flapping them frantically, trying to buck off the smaller, stouter man as he babbled and tried to apologize, not willing to let go and get trampled just yet. In her struggles Willow bounced into Wigfrid, giving Maxwell enough time to jerk his disheveled wing from her grasp and attempt to shove her off by twisting around, using his legs to try and escape.

Which didn't work, Wes clapping excitedly and doing odd little dances beside Wickerbottom as chaos reigned.

At some point Willow had screeched to a halt and was able to throw Wilson off of her back, his own wings flapping out oddly and doing him a disservice as he slammed into the ground. The honking of noise after that was punctured by his own raven caws, yelping as their roles were reversed and Willow pounced, her own hands tangled into his hair and yanking his head back, massive white wings unbalancing the both of them.

“I'm sorry I'm sorry I didn't mean it _please let go-_ ”

Willow flared her wings and made them trip back into Wigfrid, scrambling as she tried to kick him in the legs and yet still attempting to seemingly disjoint his neck.

“How do ya like that, huh?! See if ya like your hair gettin’ pulled ya dumbass-”

“I didn't mean it _I swear_ -”

Wickerbottom shifted her wings, fighting the urge to preen her feathers and give off the air of utter apathy to everyone. She was still a leader in this mess of a camp, and doing that would leave the spot open enough for someone to dart in and take her place.

She may not at all care if they kill each other, but she couldn't be so obvious about it in such a disrespectful way.

After all, this was setting up the pecking order quite splendidly.

There was a soft murmur of wings behind her, Wes shifting dramatically around and clapping his hands to his face as the newcomer landed, her murky mud brown wings mumbling with sound.

Wickerbottom decidedly did not show her distaste in the noise. Some people were just loud fliers and neither she nor they could do anything about it.

The old woman turned her head, glanced over her shoulder and watched as the little girl walked over to her side, completely ignoring Wes as he tilted his head to look at her. Wendy's wings slid closed up on her back, every feather down and relaxed as she watched the squabble of adults before her.

“What are they doing?”

There was an air of curiosity there, something small and childlike, innocent, but most of all Wickerbottom heard boredom, apathy.

So far Wendy had not taken much like her uncle, though Wickerbottom watched and waited. Clearly, especially from this drama, a Carter bored and listless was more likely to cause trouble, or turn destructively inward, and Wickerbottom was ever watchful for any such behavior that may show in Wendy Carters personality.

No one wanted another Maxwell, nor another Shadow tyrant.

“They are being childish and not communicating like adults.”

There was a shriek of pigeon noise as Wigfrid grabbed Maxwells arm and slammed him into the ground, wings still trying to lift her up. A caw of pain echoed out when Wilson tripped over one such massive red hued wing, Willow still clinging to his hair and making him fall face first into the dirt.

“This is an example of what not to do, Wendy.”

The girl nodded slowly, wide, pale golden eyes looking up at her unblinkingly, and Wickerbottom held her gaze for a long moment.

And then Wendy looked away as Wilson shrieked a scratchy caw, the tears in his eyes visible even from here as Willow beat her wings and lifted them off the ground for a split second, right before tugging herself back and dragging him down with her.

Wickerbottom slowly looked back to the scene, Wes now slowing down his mimed cheering and instead looking watchful, arms crossed behind his back and wings pulled in tight.

It took a moment to realize, but it seemed as if Wigfrid had finally gotten her hands around Maxwells neck.

“Wendy, dear,” Wickerbottom didn't hurry herself but still eyed the situation,the change in the fighting not much of a surprise but still a call for action, “Would you be so kind as to fetch Wolfgang for me? I do believe we will be needing his assistance right about now.”

“Do I have to?”

Wendy didn't even look at her, seemed entirely too focused on the morbid scene in Wickerbottoms opinion, and the old woman spread her wings and carefully guided the girl by the shoulder backwards, turning her away.

“Yes. Now go on, there is not much time to waste.”

“There is never enough time.” Wendy murmured quietly, but she dutifully spread her wings and took off with the soft sound of dove feathers, Wes glancing over for a moment before turning back. By now the mimes hands were crossed in front of his chest, a few white and black feathers caught in his sweater, and Wickerbottom considered rebuking him on the plucking but the sputter of choked sound and Wigfrids hissing bird screeches behind her made her let it go for now.

Excitement was another reason for picking and she'd not make this more exciting than it already was. The mimes wings trembled, but he was stubbornly not flying off, stayed put.

And also did not attempt to stop what was happening.

Wilson was mostly just cawing at this point, almost pitiful as Willow sat on him and honked, a cracked grin spreading on her face as she tugged harshly at his hair and feathers.

Later Wickerbottom was going to have a talk to that woman. Barreling into the fight without her even being a part of it was one thing, but obviously winning in the spat with Wilson did not mean she should continue to torment him. 

She was also just in general not helping the situation.

Wickerbottoms frown got deeper, watching the weaker man try to shove Wigfrid off of him, still fighting even though she had a firm grip on him now, had him pinned, his grey wings beating frantically against the earth. Feathers were scattered about the fight scene, all sorts of colors, but most of them were grey and, as he struggled more, Maxwell was losing handfuls of loose, brittle feathering.

And, by the looks of it, he had opened up his wounds, undone a few of his bandaging.

How delightful, Wickerbottom thought sourly. She didn't think she'd be doing the nursing again so soon after finally getting the man to stay put, and perhaps she'd just let it be. Maxwell knew well enough how to treat wounds, and with all the whining he had done previously the old woman didn't feel up to helping him again.

Perhaps she could get Wilson to do it, Wickerbottom glancing over to how the scientist had completely given up and was just crying as Willow yelled and honked at him for even daring to touch her hair. If, of course, he wasn't too injured either. 

Willow knew how to throw her weight and wings around, and Wickerbottom did not doubt that the woman could break bones if she tried hard enough.

By the time Wickerbottom heard the rush of wings as Wolfgang approached Wes had shied almost completely behind her, still watching but shaking terribly. From the looks of it, Wigfrid was winning out and the man couldn't even get his wings up enough to slap at her at this point.

If Wendy had put up more of a fuss earlier, he may not have made it.

Well, by the looks of it, Wickerbottom adjusting her glasses as she turned to watch the giant of a man thud down heavily from his half flying, half jumping sprint, massive wings not at all suited for flying closing up on his back, Maxwell may still not make it.

The viking woman knew her strength, though human murder was always a little harsh on people.

Wickerbottom raised a hand, half turned to point at the slowing struggle behind her, voice raised as to be louder than Wilsons pained cawing.

“May I ask you, dear, to please break up this squabble? It's gone on long enough.”

Wolfgang scratched his chin, squinting his dark eyes as he looked over her to the scene.

“Is not for fun?”

Wickerbottom sighed, fought the urge to message her temples. The headache was pounding quite terribly behind her eyes. 

Perhaps she'll make some tea for herself later.

“Not anymore I'm afraid.”

Wolfgang nodded his head, growing serious as he flared open his wings. Wendy finally landed in a murmur of sound, a slower flyer than the mighty man beside her.

“Wolfgang will stop them. Friends must learn when enough is enough, and stop before someone gets hurt!”

With that he bundled forward in a huge leap, a rush of wind at the strength of his slow flapping wings, and Wickerbottom turned just as Wendy walked up to her, hands clasped loosely together. The old woman's wings spread ever so slightly, to help block what was going on behind her.

“He is making meatballs to-night.”

The singsong, unbothered air of her voice was almost a blessing, a child's distraction the quiet eye of the storm. Wes was watching her now, raising his hands and dancing them about fluidly for a moment, still trembling but tilting his head with curious, pursed lips.

“I do hope there is no hound in it this time around?” Wickerbottom turned her attention away, to watch as Wolfgang got himself over to the violent and absurdly pitiful sight of a man being choked to death by a woman twice his weight and build. “Nor spider?”

“Nope.” Wendy sounded a little lighter, and Wickerbottom glanced over to the girl, feeling a slight weight off her shoulders at seeing the mime keeping her focus on him. “Webber was making extra sure that only their portion had any.”

Ah, that explained the change in demeanor. That child was the happier grounding for such a dark girl like Wendy, and Wickerbottom wondered why Wendy had not stayed behind with her friend.

“They wanted everyone to know that dinner is almost finished.”

Her unaired question answered, Wickerbottom sighed heavily, tired from just being around all this chaos. It drew so much out of her, worried her on the children's safety and state of mind, but there was little she could do.

And, honestly, there was little she wished to do either.

As Wickerbottom watched on, Wolfgang had gotten one of his hands around one of Willows flapping wings, yanking her up sharply and cutting off her startled honk of noise. Wilson stayed on the ground and cawed in sobbing stutters to himself, his own hands balled up into his hair and no doubt feeling a great amount of surface pain.

Getting Wigfrid removed from Maxwell was a little harder, and she was too far away to hear what Wolfgang said to the viking woman, leaning over with Willow sulking at his side and whispering to her, huge wings spread and free hand on his friends shoulder.

It was probably a good thing Wendy was distracted into talking to Wes and describing dinner; Maxwell looked quite dead from here.

After a moment, watching as Wigfrid finally released her hold on the older man and stood up, not quite eye to eye with Wolfgang but both still holding so much strength to them, Wickerbottom shifted her wings, clasped her hands behind her and slowly, purposefully walked over to the group.

Wilson had gotten himself up, still messaging his head and looking worse for wear, as well as looking as if he regretted ever involving himself, wings drawn up to his back and loose feathers sprouting from his neck and throat, tangled in his clothing. Willow stood off to the side, trying to scoot herself away from Wolfgang even as he kept a firm hold on one of her wings, not as roughed up but still obviously having lost a few feathers.

Wigfrid stood stoically still, was watching Wickerbottom approach, and held her silent, disapproving gaze for a long moment before looking away.

Now up close, Maxwell wasn't quite dead just yet. He hadn't gotten himself up, but he threw a glance up at her and sneered, orange rimmed eyes darting away as he pushed himself to his knees, one gloved hand going to his throat, wheezing out a few coughs and attempting to swallow the rest. The bandages on his wings were largely undone, cracked scabbing and blood dribbling into staining his feathers already.

“Now, what have we learned from all this?”

Wickerbottoms heavy gaze looked at each of them in turn, face a firm frown and hands clasped before her, black tipped wings spread ever so slightly to make herself look bigger.

Wilson was the first to answer, not quite looking her in the eye, trying and failing to not look as if he was brushing the tears from his face.

“To not involve myself in a rubbish argument.”

Wickerbottom sighed as Willow laughed loudly, almost mockingly as the smaller man turned to glare at her.

“The answer should be to not fuckin’ pull a girls hair, ya asswipe.”

She giggled at the look on his face, but when she saw Wickerbottoms she quieted, not even trying to hide her crooked smile, feathers still all puffed up.

“You, young lady, I will be talking to later.”

Immediately Willows face fell, then curled into a grumpy pout, glowering her irritation onto Wilson as she turned her gaze away.

“You're fault, you started it…” She grumbled, but then Wickerbottom interrupted her with a firm voice.

“Willow, you caused the fight to escalate and brought it upon yourself. Stop placing the blame on Mr. Higgsbury.”

With that Wickerbottom turned her disapproval over to the original troublemakers, Wigfrid holding her ground, not as red faced and wings still retaining most of her feathers, save a few lost when Willow had crashed in, Maxwell still on the ground and holding his neck, glaring meanly at them all and still obviously trying to get his breath back.

“We all know this was entirely uncalled for.” Wickerbottom sniffed, straightened her back and making herself look taller, black tipped wings stretching to help aid the image. “And we all know who started it.” 

She glanced over at Willow for only a moment, and then settled her gaze onto Maxwell.

The man looked like he was going to argue, wrinkled face harsh and snarling, but all that came out was a huff of almost bird noise and then he started to cough, bending over and messaging his throat as a pained look settled on him.

There was shuffle as Wilson shook his wings, worry on his face for a moment before he caught Wickerbottoms gaze and looked away, crossing his arms and hardening his face.

Wickerbottom herself looked down at the thin man coughing on the ground with obvious distaste, though stiff and unspoken.

She hadn't interfered with the fight at any point. She wouldn't have been able to do anything to stop it anyway.

But, perhaps she was also willing to watch passively for another reason, and her mind chewed on her own morally grey nature before she turned her gaze on Wigfrid.

The viking woman did not look sorry whatsoever, was completely unbothered by the distress of the man she had attempted to murder, and she met Wickerbottoms gaze.

An understanding passed between them, for just a moment, and then Wolfgang cleared his throat.

“Is done now, yes? No more fighting with friends?”

Wickerbottom nodded her head, closing her eyes and rubbing her forehead, wrinkled face loosening for just a moment. “You may go, Wolfgang. Thank you for your help.”

The giant of a man smiled at her, raising his massive wings, a throaty, almost turkey like sound escaping him. “Is all good, miss. Wolfgang must get back to dinner, it's meatballs tonight!”

With that he took off, wings helping him hop and sprint away, and Wickerbottom watched as he passed Wendy and Wes with a whoop, seeming to invite them along since the two opened up their wings and flapped after him. 

She didn't smile, not yet anyway, but it was good of him to get those two away from this mess. She'll have to make it up to the man for all the help he gave to this chaotic camp.

When she turned back, Willow was already off, flapping her white wings frantically and rushing away. Wickerbottom sighed at the sight but let it go for now. The promise of food will bring the woman back tonight and that was when Wickerbottom would be lecturing her.

Wilson had cautiously shuffled around Wigfrid, who gave him a searching look before flaring her wings and rolling her eyes.

“I must be öff, elder, else we may nöt have enöugh fööd för everyöne.”

Wickerbottom raised an eyebrow at that, pursing her lips, but she didn't bring up the fact that the woman had hunted all day and had brought in more than enough for a dish as simple as meatballs. Instead she nodded, waving a dismissive hand to the viking.

“You may leave, Wigfrid. Later, however, I do wish to speak to you alone.”

Wigfrid nodded, looking thoughtful, face still hardened, and she only gave a quick glance to Wilson before taking wing, the wind picking up from her large red tinged wings. She circled above them for a moment, watching, before taking off into a seemingly random direction, and Wickerbottom turned her attention to the last of this whole debacle, noting silently on Wigfrids refusal to even acknowledge the trauma she had no doubt caused.

Maxwell was being stubborn, still holding his neck, but Wilson was ushering him into a stand, an odd mix of loathing and worry on his face. This close up, Wickerbottom could already see the spreading bruises around the old man's throat even as he tried to hide them from sight, glaring at her silently.

“I do hope you learned at least something from this.” She looked at Wilson, catching him off guard. “The both of you.”

He looked like he wanted to answer, but then Maxwell huffed a wheezing sound and whirled around, grey, blood oozing wings tucked close against his back, though one was a little off kilter and obviously was giving him some discomfort.

He only got a few steps away before wobbling, the effects of such harsh fighting and useless expending of energy finally catching up, and Wilson shot her an unreadable look before hopping over to him, an arm on his as he attempted to help the old man stumble away.

Wickerbottom sighed, closing her own wings loosely, and a faint breeze stirred up as Wilson got the other man into his tent, which looked as if it was turning out to be a tiring feat.

Maxwell was near her own age and was a stubborn old git, and Wickerbottom had very low opinions on him. The man had a terrible reputation, and he was the one to have created it, to foster such animosity that practically everyone felt towards him.

He was childish, antagonistic, always too confident, and this had backfired horrifically this time around. Had it just been him and Wigfrid, Wickerbottom had no doubts on who would have shown up at dinner and who wouldn't have. 

It wouldn't have been much of a loss, none whatsoever really, and Wilson's distress would have eventually tapered off in the end. The old man was largely a pain to handle and Wickerbottom could barely stand his ego and aggressive posturing.

She looked upon the ground, noting the scattered red and white feathers, the puff of black feathering. And the massive amount of grey down and feathers thrown about everywhere. Blood too, loose bandaging and reopened wounds causing more of the messy trail.

She sighed, inner thoughts troubled by the whole thing.

Letting off steam was one thing. Murder was another.

This camp was a mess.

Wickerbottom turned to follow after Wolfgang and the others, planning to help with finishing dinner. Perhaps…

Perhaps she'll make some mandrake tea, later. It would help her headache, and she had more than enough to make more than one cup.

Perhaps she'll make a bit more. Strangulation was more than just a sore throat, but mandrake was a healing herb. It helped calm the stressed as well, and she was sure Wilson would benefit greatly from it.

And, even in all his stubbornness and childish nature, Maxwell has never turned her down when she offered him tea.

If she was feeling really well, perhaps she'll help Wilson with dressing those wing wounds again. For all she knew, the both of them would probably botch the job and cause more damage.

Hopefully, this drama has finally settled the score. The pecking order was in place and will stay this way now.

Everyone knew their place, boundaries were set, and from now on the fighting would be at minimal.

No more attempted murder.

Wickerbottom sighed, wings catching the picking up wind.

Hopefully, there would be no more attempted murder.

Hopefully.


End file.
